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THE GIFT OF THE GODS 


High up in the Sierras is a lake, the fairest and 
most picturesque in all California. 

Around about it rise the lofty granite peaks, and 
at its mouth the grassy meadow land, strewn with 
mariposa lilies, rose and lavender, wild lilacs and 
columbine, stretches away in soft green beauty and 
flowery lovliness to meet the dark line of the forest. 

Now the raindrops glisten on the grass blades 
and the festoons of trailing wild grape vine, for the 
late afternoon sunshine is peeping timidly through 


the misty rain clouds in a tiny patch of blue, and 
the air is full of cool freshness. 

In the entrance of a wigwam, cuddled close be- 
side a mossy bowlder lies a bundle of skins upon a 
couch of leafy boughs and downy rushes. 

The bundle stirs, and the soft, warm furs are 
pushed aside. Two bright little eyes open, and a 
poor, misshapen little body struggles up. 

“Ah, my tiny owllet, the porridge of acorn hangs 
above the fire, the maize is ready pounded, and I 
shall bring you food anon.” It was dusky Wenonah, 
the little Indian mother, whose moccasined footsteps 
sounded softly from within. 

“Oh, my mother, lift aside the flap of bear skin, 
and see the wonder which loops from yonder moun- 
tain tops, soaring high up toward the skies.” 

Then out came tender-eyed Wenonah, laughing 
softly as she answered, “All the wild flowers of the 
meadow and of the forest yonder, bloom there in 
heaven above us when they fade and perish here on 
earth. See, it is their flowery spirits which blossom 
in the gorgeous rainbow.” 

“I see the flowery spirits there on high, and 
smell the earthly fragrance from the blossoming 
fields around us ; but I long to frolic in the mossy 
green pasture beside them, to swing to and fro in 
the wild grape vines, and to join in the sport when 
the little braves race to the waterfall in the evening 
tide. Ah, the joy it must be to creep noiselessly to 
the haunts of the quail and the goose, and to watch 
the beautiful speckled trout sport in the crystal 
waters.” 

A look of sadness crept into the soft, dark eyes 
of Wenonah as she seated herself beside him, and 
gently murmured with compassion, “Is it the special 


child, the gift from Those Above, who thinks thus of 
misfortune? Happiness should steal into our hearts 
when we remember the words of the Shaman (medi- 
cine man). 

“One day, an exquisite rainbow, like that above 
us, passed over forests, lakes, rivers, mountains and 
meadows, and loomed up, up, up into the Garden of 
the Gods. Now, in this heavenly meadow, beautiful 
maidens and chubby papooses were softly singing as 
they wove bright flower garlands, when in peeked 
the brilliant rainbow. On it, they placed my boy, 
not seeing the tall mountain peak over which the 
tinted pathway scraped. Then they gently pushed 
him, and down, down, down he slid; but his tender 
little back grazed the mountain top, and that is why 
he landed in Mother’s teepee with this twisted little 
body. Come, dry those tears and smile! The very 
child of God is loved and reverenced by all.” 

Slowly the rainbow faded. Away scattered the 
rain clouds, and the sun shone clear and bright, 
touching the towering cliffs with rose color, and 
causing the calm lake to sparkle like a gem. 

It sparkled, yes, but not more brightly than did 
the black eyes of the little Gift of the Gods. 






CLOUD PICTURES 


The clouds form magic pictures 
As they float across the sky ; 

Look up at the forms they take 
As they go drifting by. 

Perhaps you’ll see an ocean 
With waves all foaming, tumbling ; 
And you’ll almost think you hear 
The dull roar of its rumbling. 

And sometimes, great pirate ships 
Go sailing ’crost the blue, 

Looking just as natural, 

You’ll almost think ’tis true. 

Queer looking animals will form, 
Dogs or cats, as plain as day ; 

But as you gaze up in delight, 

The vision will fade away. 

The clouds will shift about, 

And there before your eyes, 

The tall spires and the domes 
Of a city may slowly rise. 

There are all kinds of pictures 
In Heaven’s wondrous book, 

And all there is for you to do 
Is just to sit and look. 



THE CONVENTION OF THE BIRDS 


Winter crept wearily back to tbe Cave of the 
Seasons, deep in the heart of the mountains. 

“Up, up, daughter ! Up and away,” he cried. 

Then Spring arose with smiling lips and happy 
eyes. 

She tossed her sunny tresses as she tripped gaily 
down the hillside, and her laughter echoed softly on 
the breeze. 

She skipped through the woods, and lo ! tiny, 
green leaves appeared and unfurled until, buds and 
blossoms peeked from a sweet, leafy tangle. 

The Meadow spread a mossy carpet beneath her 
dancing feet. Golden buttercups reared themselves 
from among the bright spring flowers, and smiled up 
at the sunny skies. 

Tra-la-la, Tra-la-la, 

Come trip o’er the lea ; 

Tra-la-la, Tra-la-la, 

Come and happy be. 


sang Spring, as her twinkling little feet bore her 
northward. 

All nature reveled in the sunbeams, and the soft, 
balmy air of the Meadow vibrated with the sweet 
chirp and twitter from many a warbling throat ; for 
the birds had gathered — hundreds and hundreds of 
them from far and near — for word had gone, north, 
east, south and west that when Spring’s cheery voice 
was heard, they were to meet in the Meadow and 
choose a king. 

The Swallows, birds of the air, came, their long, 
blade-like wings cutting the air with easy, powerful 
strokes. 

A troop of noisy Blackbirds had arrived, and the 
Robin’s clear, ringing call came lustily from the 
hedge. 

The Bluebirds came from their favorite grape 
arbor, and their soft, musical voices mingled amiably 
with high-spirited, cheery notes of the Chick-a-dees. 

The energetic little Wren held his tail saucily 
erect while he told the shy Wood-thrush all about the 
lovely time he had in the south. 

The Bobolinks, bubbling over with glee, rose 
from the buttercups, singing a rollicking ditty. 

One merry young fellow alighted on an old 
brown stump beside the Meadow Lark and whispered, 
“Who is the dude with the smooth, gray feathers?” 

“Why, that is the Cat-bird,” answered the 
Meadow Lark. “He is slim and elegant, to be sure, 
and now sings a rippling melody — but (and he spoke 
quite low) they say he can also utter the most petu- 
lent of whines. That is why he is called Cat-bird.” 

A rose-colored Linnet hopped over and ex- 
claimed: “Listen! What a mellow, flute-like love 
song ! Who can it be?” 


Then the Bobolink answered: “Look over the 
evergreen where that tiny, dainty sprite is flitting 
and fluttering and twinkling about. It is he who 
sings — the Kuby-Crowned Kinglet. See, even the 
Dove sweethearts have paused to listen.” 

Then a gay, dashing Bluejay, with an important 
air, made his noisy way excitedly among the birds, 
screaming that the Mockingbird, the loveliest singer 
of all, would sing for them in the grove. 

So away they all flew and settled on the shrubs 
and limbs of the spreading oak trees to listen with 
rapture while the Mockingbird sang a wonderful 
song of orange blossoms and scented jasmine in her 
own dear native southland. 

A little Oriole mother, in her grayish-olive dress, 
slipped quietly away among the trees to look at her 
babies wdio hung in a leafy retreat at the end of a 
limb. 

A jeweled, fairy-like Hummingbird stopped sip- 
ping honey from a blossom to call to the Goldfinch 
who was clinging to a slender, swaying stem. 

She answered with a ripple of sweet twittering, 
and flew over for a chat ; but a sharp glance from the 
Eagle silenced them, and they looked and saw that 
the Buzzard was calling all the birds to order. 

“I think the birds are all here,” cried he in a 
loud voice, “and we will proceed to choose our King.” 

“Tweet, tweet, tweet,” chattered the hundreds 
and hundreds of birds in a flurry of excitement, as 
they scolded and twittered and bobbed and skimmed 
about. 

But they all settled down again and were quite 
still when the Peacock shrugged his shoulders dainti- 
ly and spread his gorgeous, fan-shaped tail as he 
strutted forward and said, “The King of the birds 


should have beauty and royalty. Am I not King 
of all?” 

The birds laughed merrily and called him a vain 
thing. 

Then the Dove cooed in his sweet, sad voice, “I 
am gentle and devoted. My mate and I would rule 
lovingly.” 

"I, I,” cried the Sparrow, “for my family are the 
most numerous in the land.” 

The crafty black Raven spoke, the Woodpecker 
and the Cuckoo ; but finally it was decided that the 
King should be he who rose highest in the air, and 
could approach nearest the sun, the great Father of 
Nature. 

Then the Eagle opened wide his wings, rose ma- 
jestically in the air and soared up, up, up, until the 
huddled birds could see only a speck against the blue. 

Then he dropped slowly to earth and demanded : 
“Am I King?” 

“Yes, yes. Long live the Eagle! Long live our 
King !” cried all the birds heartily. 

“A moment, friends ; a moment !” cried a little, 
frail, shrill voice. “A moment ! You have sworn to 
give the crown to him who should soar highest in 
the air, and I — I, the Wren, rose far higher than the 
Eagle, for I lurked among the thick plumage of his 
back, as still you see me, and he, all unknowing, 
carried me along with him, and I have been above 
him all the time.” 

The birds were embarrassed. Who should have 
the scepter, the Eagle or the Wren? 

After a while an old Owl scratched his gray 
head with his claw and said: “The Eagle shall be 
King, because he flew with his own strength, where 
not one of us dared follow. Therefore, let us pro- 


claim him ‘King of the Birds.’ As for the Wren, 
who would never have been so near the sun but for 
the Eagle, let him receive the title of ‘Little King.’ ” 
The Owl’s proposal was received with wild 
chirps and twitterings of applause. 

The Eagle, the strong Eagle, was King ; and the 
Wren, the wise, happy little Wren, was to be known 
henceforth as “Little King.” 




























































































































































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THE FAIRY OF THE BIG PINK ROSE 


It was cosy and sweet in the heart of the big 
pink rose. The little fairy who lives there had been 
wrapped in petals and sleeping snug and comfy all 
day long. But when the crickets down in the meadow 
struck up their evening concert, the whole fairy 
world was awakened. 

Some people may think it is the Evening Breeze 
that stirs the flowers and the leaves when twilight 
comes ; but it isn’t always. Oh, no ! It is the fairy 
folk. So when the big pink rose gently nodded and 
swayed, it was the little fairy climbing out to sit on 
top of the flower and look around. 

She saw the sky all spangled with stars ; and the 
moon was very big, and very round and very bright. 
Other fairies had come out, too, and were calling 
gaily to each other from flower to flower. In the 
shrubbery a dainty little sprite was swinging to and 
fro in a cobweb hammock, singing softly, 

“Oh, it’s nice at night, 

When the moon is bright, 

And the dew is on the flowers ; 

When the stars hang low, 

And the glow-worms glow, 

And the fairies leave their bowers.” 

Then the other little fairies all joined in, and 
they sang, 

“Yes, it’s nice at night, 

In the bright moonlight, 

When we fairies leave our bowers ; 

Gay pranks we’ll play, 

While we work away, 

Through all the long night hours.” 


The little fairy of the big pink rose hummed the 
refrain while she peered around and found a dew- 
drop to drink. Then she ate the honey that a little 
bee never failed to leave for her each day. And then 
she took her paints and brushes, and hurried to join 
the other little fairies. 

They skipped across the meadow, talking hap- 
pily, and laughing little laughs as merry as a bobo- 
link’s song. 

Some climbed up into the trees, while others 
swung in the vines, and with paints and brushes and 
nimble fingers they set to work to paint the autumn 
leaves with bright splashes of crimson and gold and 
brown. 

Higher and higher crept the moon. The foliage 
of the meadow grew gay with all the festive colors 
of the sunset, and a million little moonbeams came 
down to play. 

The fairy of the big pink rose was perched high 
up in a maple tree, tinting the leaves with dabs of 
bronze. Just as she leaned back with squinted eyes 
and head a-tilt to survey her work proudly, along 
came the Evening Breeze. 

Full of mischief, he whirled around the trees till 
all the leaves were rustling and the frightened fair- 
ies swaying dizzily to and fro. They dropped their 
paints and they lost their brushes, while the Even- 
ing Breeze whistled with glee. 

Then away he blew across the meadow, stop- 
ping here and there to shake a vine or toss the 
bushes. 

Now, fairies love to play pranks, but they can- 
not take a joke. So the fairy of the big pink rose 
was looking very indignant and the other little fair- 
ies were bubbling with excitement, when suddenly 
they heard someone singing. They listened, and this 
is what they heard : 


“Oh, I’ve come forth, 

From the far, far North, 

To this land of the pixy and elf ; 

Never mind what is lost, 

For I am Jack Frost, 

And I’ll finish this painting myself.” 

Sure enough, it was old Jack Frost himself 
coming across the meadow, and the fairies shivered 
as he went on singing, 

“My colors are white, 

They nip and they bite, 

And my breath is all icy with cold ; 

So away to your bowers, 

In the hearts of the flowers, 

Where ’tis snug as can be, I am told.” 

So the fairies hurried away just as fast as they 
could go, and the flowers opened to welcome them 
home. 

The little fairy of the big pink rose cuddled down 
in her cosy cradle. The leaves whispered a lullaby, 
and gently, very gently, the flower rocked the tired 
little fairy to sleep. 


THE SPIDER, THE WASP, 
AND THE FLY 


’Twas morning in the month of June, 

And the sun was shining bright, 

All nature sang a blithesome tune, 

And the earth basked in the light. 

The wily vampire of the oak 
By his web sat, nodding, napping, 

From the pool there came the bull frog’s croak, 
From yon tree the wood-peck’s tapping. 

Miss Mayme Fly, as she passed by, 

Caught a glimpse of the spider’s lair, 

So she stopped and looked with curious eye 
At the old man’s home attire. 


His coat was the shade of the tree trunk brown 
’Gainst which his home was builded, 

And she shook to see the ominous frown 
On his brow, by the sun’s rays guild ed. 

His wicked mouth had a cruel sneer, 

For he was a mean old orge, 

And any fly would have cause to fear 
If caught in this web in the gorge. 

From her seat on a leaf of the spreading tree 
Miss Mayme surveyed the scene, 

A perilous place for a fly to be, 

But Mayme was young and green. 

The monster sighed and opened his eyes, 

Mayme thought it was time to be leaving; 

She had heard tales of how he enticed young flies, 
Grabbed them, ate them, left home folks grieving. 

As she spread her wings — about to go, 

The old man must have heard her, 

For he spoke in a voice that was choked and low, 
"I’m feeble, I’m ill, my eyes blur.” 

"Come, pretty maid, to my front door, 

I fear that I am dying, 

I’m lying helpless on the floor, 

Oh! can’t you hear my crying?” 

Mayme listened to his woes, impressed, 

For she was tender-hearted ; 

The poor old man was so distressed, 

So to his help she started. 

"Come, pretty maid, walk in, my dear, 

I appreciate your kindness, 

I am so glad to have you here 
To assist me in my blindness.” 

"Ah, do not fear, my pretty friend, 

My house you will admire, 

So come right in and o’er me bend, 

New health you will inspire.” 


A fat old wasp was hovering nigh, 

And chuckling as he listened ; 

He knew that spider was quite spry, 

His eyes with humor glistened. 

As Mayme stepped within, too late, 

The spider’s plot perceiving, 

She braced to wait o’er taking fate, 

She was lost beyond reprieving. 

She watched that jailer mad with glee 
Toward her slowly creeping, 

While she in hopeless agony 
Waited powerless and weeping. 

With cunning smiles his face was wreathed 
As he thought of his intention; 

She closed her eyes and scarcely breathed, 
But at last came intervention. 


The fat old wasp fell down upon 
That spider with a whirl ; 

He munched and crunched till he was gone, 
Then freed the scared young girl. 


u 



Tim Tadpole and Peter Polywog lived in tlie old 
stone fountain under the lime trees. And it was a 
beautiful home. The stone was dull and gray with 
age ; and here and there a red geranium looked over 
the top and was mirrored in the limpid water. 

In the daytime the sun filtered down through 
the leaves. And when the sun went away, the cool 


gloom crept in and deepened the shadows until the 
stars came out in the velvet darkness; and as they 
winked and twinkled merrily down, the trees seemed 
hung with jewels. 

Yes, it was a beautiful home, and Tim and Peter 
had been chums ever since they were hatched. 

Now, Peter was a reckless, happy-go-lucky sort 
of a polywog, and it was well for him that Tim was 
the most serious, cautious tadpole that ever was. 
For when a fish would dart anywhere near them, and 
Peter would venture to idle along — an easy prey — it 
was Tim who would shrink into the shadow and 
draw Peter along with him. 

They always ate and talked and played and 
swam together, until one day — but that is the story. 

A green frog appeared in the fountain one morn- 
ing from nobody knew where. 

He came hopping along the top of the wall, 
leaped into the water quite unconcerned and made 
himself right at home. 

The fish eyed him with suspicion from the very 
first, and would have none of him. “You are a man 
of no family,” they would say haughtily. “We know 
not who you are or whence you come.” 

“Who, me?” the frog would reply excited like. 
“Why — why — why,” he would stammer with rising 
anger, “you just wait awhile and I’ll show you what’s 
what.” And then he would climb up on the top of the 
wall, where he’d sit and breathe with short, quick 
gasps. 

And then the polywogs and tadpoles began to 
eye him askance. For if the fish snubbed him, some- 
thing surely must be the matter, they reasoned. 

Now, one day when Tim and Peter were wiggling 
about in the water together Tim said : “That green 


frog has an evil eye. Fll bet he is some very wicked 
man who has come here to hide himself in this quiet 
fountain. Maybe he is some robber chief for all we 
know.” 

Peter adored anything that smacked of adven- 
ture or excitement, and Tim’s remark was a real 
treat to him. 

With a well-directed question here and there, 
Peter encouraged him to dwell upon the story. The 
wonder of it grew and grew. Hair-breadth escapes 
and thrilling scenes were discussed until Peter was 
nearly dead with eagerness to be the hero of some 
bold and daring deed, and poor Tim felt scared and 
shivered over his own story. 

Later, when they swam over near the edge of the 
water and espied the green frog sitting calm and 
proud on the top of the wall, Peter eyed him with 
new respect; but Tim glanced nervously at him and 
hurried ahead. 

Peter watched his chum with a tolerant expres- 
sion, and when Tim paused and turned to beckon 
frantically to him, he appeared not to see. 

And then, more to impress Tim than anything 
else, for his heart was really beating a tattoo, Peter 
swam carelessly over by the frog and asked with a 
smile that was meant to be sociable, but was rather 
one sided and jerky, “Bugs pretty good up there to- 
day, eh?” 

The frog looked surprised for a moment. Then 
he answered civilly, “There are only a few, and 
they’re too skinny to amount to much.” 

“Well — er — that’s too bad,” Peter stammered, 
with a feeble effort at conversation. 

He stole a glance out of the tail of his eye at 
Tim. Yes, Tim was a good, safe distance away, but 


watching him with wide, startled eyes. Peter felt 
mightily encouraged. 

“Er — uh! Guess you find things rather dull 
around here, don’t you?” 



The frog stifled a yawn before he replied : “Yes, 
life in the fountain is simple, indeed; but I find it 
restful, and I really enjoy the change,” he drawled. 

Peter was impressed. Here was a man who 
knew life. Maybe he really was a robber chief, or 
perhaps a King. 



The frog saw the admiration in Peter’s eyes, 
and remarked casually, “But I can’t loiter here like 
this much longer. Important business awaits me 
in the outside world.” 

Peter felt very humble now, and when the frog 
said, “Here, young man, assist me to descend,” he 
actually jumped to obey. 

Tim’s face was the picture of astonishment 
when Peter swam by looking very small and insig- 
nificant beside his new acquaintance. He passed his 
old friend with the tiniest and most languid of nods. 

“Friend of yours?” the frog inquired. 

“Oh, I’ve known him a long time. Mce, oblig- 
ing chap,” Peter answered carelessly. 

Around the fountain Peter and the frog swam 
slowly. The frog bragged and swaggered to his 
heart’s content, and Peter drank in every word and 
look and high-handed gesture. 

When they came around to where Tim should 
be waiting, Peter held his head very high and 
laughed an affected little laugh as he flecked a speck 
of cobweb from the frog’s shoulder with a familiar 
movement. 

What would Tim think, he wondered, and as he 
wondered he swept a sly glance around. 

Then both Peter and the frog stopped still and 
stared. 

There was Tim chatting with a big, green frog, 
a portly, elegant old gentleman who wore an eye- 
glass. 

Just then the portly frog turned and saw them. 
“James,” he commanded, “come here!” 

Peter felt stunned, for the green frog answered 
meekly, “Yes, sir,” and hurried to the old gentleman 
with a very servile manner. 

Then the portly old gentleman bossed him 
around with a “James, this,” and a “James, that,” 
and James answered, “Yes, sir. Indeed, sir,” and 
“If you please, sir,” as he flew around to do the old 
frog’s bidding. 


Peter was bewildered. He saw things as in a 
dream. 

The old gentleman motioned Tim to a seat be- 
side him, and they talked and laughed together 
while the green frog caught flies and insects for 
them to eat. 

Then Peter heard the old frog say: “ James is a 
good, faithful servant, so I told him to come over 
here and take a vacation in the fountain.” 

Peter could stand no more. He was glad his 
old chum did not glance his way. And while Tim 
was receiving a cordial invitation to visit the portly 
old frog, Peter crept silently away and hid under a 
geranium leaf that trailed in the water. 

The sun went away, and after a while the star 
jewels hung in the trees, but Peter felt too sick and 
hurt to care what happened. 

After a while he heard Tim come slowly along 
humming to himself. He hoped and prayed that he 
would pass on by. But he didn’t. 

“Well, Peter, our friends have gone,” said he, 
coming in under the trailing leaf. 

Then Peter roused himself and spoke up briskly, 
“Say, Tim, you missed it. I never had so much fun 
in my life. That fool frog was telling more crazy 
things. I wished you were there to hear it all. But 
I just let him talk; it amused me so. Of course, I 
knew better all the time. 

“Of course, you did,” Tim answered. 

Peter looked at him sharply, but he didn’t see 
Tim smile — for Tim turned his head aside. 



sr 




TWIXT TWILIGHT AND DAWN 


We’ll sing you a song of the sweet half-light, 

Of the time when the sky fades gray; 

When the Crescent Moon is a pale wan sight, 

When the Stars are impatiently waiting for night, 
And the Comets are eager to play. 

The Maidens of the Twilight were floating across 
the sky. Their gauzy robes of gray and purple and 
murky darkness spread out and trailed behind them. 
Slowly the blue sky faded and the dusk fell. 

We’ll sing you a song as we melt away, 

A song of the dark’ning sky ; 

When the Crescent Moon is joyous and gay, 

When the heavens gleam with a starry spray, 

And the merry Comets flash by. 

***** 

The Evening Star tossed her bright head and 
frowned. 

“Why so cross?” asked a Meteor moving over 
beside her. 


“Oh, those Twilight Maidens ! Seems like they 
are slower than ever this summer. I though they 
would never close out the day.” 

A Shooting Star came dashing along and 
stopped near the Evening Star. “I nearly gave up 
the idea of coming over at all tonight,” said he. “The 
Twilight Maidens are getting so lazy, I’m really 
disgusted. I can’t seem to get started in decent sea- 
son any more.” 

Twinkling Star came sailing along and joined 
the group. “It’s going to be a gorgeous night,” she 
remarked brightly. “What are you all pow- wowing 
about?” 

“We feel out of humor, and no wonder,” the 
Evening Star answered shortly. “The Twilight 
Maidens have no regard for our feelings — not the 
slightest !” 

“What’s the trouble?” the Crescent Moon called 
genially. “Come, come, come! Kun and play hide 
and seek in those tufts of snow-white clouds ; or else 
let’s have a concert or something.” 

“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said the Evening 
Star, becoming more animated. Suppose we go and 
call on those Twilight Maidens and ask them very 
nice and politely, to please hurry a little so we can 
get out earlier nights.” 

“That’s a good idea,” said the Meteor. And they 
all ran away across the sky. 

The Moon hurried along to caution some giddy, 
young shooting stars about going so near the Earth ; 
and when he looked around, the Evening Star, the 
Meteor, Shooting Star and Twinkling Star were no- 
where to be seen. 

But the heavens were all aglow with stars who 
were tuning up for the evening concert. Twang- 


twang-twang, went the guitars. Tinkle-tinkle- tinkle, 
answered the mandolins. 

And then with many merry little nods and 
flourishes, the stars played and sang while the 
Comets danced around in their jolly, happy way. And, 
while they played and sang and danced, the night 
hours glided by. 

The Moon had been looking thoughtful for some 
time, and glacing anxiously around the sky. The 
Evening Star, the Meteor, Shooting Star and Twink- 
ling Star had not yet returned, and he was worried. 

Once more he looked around, and this time his 
face brightened, for he saw the wanderers slowly 
wending their way in and out among the stars. But 
they were very silent and tired-looking. Not a word 
had they to say. 

When they came up to the Moon they stopped. 

“ Well ?” questioned the Moon simply. 

“Oh dear, oh dear, we are so tired and sleepy,” 
moaned the Evening Star softly. “All night long we 
have wandered about in the Milky Way.” 

“Yes, we got lost,” said the Meteor with a woe- 
begone look. 

“And we heard the music coming faint and far 
away — and — oh — how I wished I was here,” said 
Twinkling Star with a gulp. 

The Shooting Star just opened and shut his eyes 
drowsily. He had nothing to say. 

All around them the stars were settling down, 
and everything was very quiet. 

Then the Moon pointed silently to the east, and 
every little star nodded sleepily, and closed his eyes. 


Well sing you a song of the morning hour, 

Of the time when the sky is gray ; 

When the Crescent Moon is taking to flight, 
When the Stars are sleepily waiting for light, 
And the Comets have all run away. 

The Maidens of the Dawn were floating across 
the sky. Their gauzy robes of gray and rose pink 
spread out and trailed behind them. Gradually the 
east became flushed with light, and it was day. 

We’ll sing you a song as we melt away, 

A song of the rosy sky ; 

When the clouds are tinged pink with the first sun 
ray, 

When the mists wrap like tulle around the new day, 
And the first gleam of light glints by. 



















































. 











































































































































































































































V 























































DREAM-FAIRIES OF THE MOON 


Come, fairy, elf and dainty sprite, 

Gather for the downward flight ; 

For the Sandman left with his bags of sand, 

To send the children to slumber-land, 

And now they’re sleeping tight. 

Hasten, fairies ! The minutes fly ! 

Silver pathways bridge the sky ; 

So each one take your nicest dream, 

And slide to earth on a bright moonbeam, 

For the midnight hour is nigh. 

It is the merry old Moon-King calling the 
Dream-fairies together. And such a scampering 
never was seen, for these gay, little fairies of the 
Moon work hard all day, making beautiful dreams 
for the children of the earth. 

The old, gray-haired Sandman lives in the moon, 
too. Through all the daylight hours he hustles and 
bustles around gathering the sand to fill his bags. 
But when the stars begin to twinkle in the dusk, he 
is all ready and waiting for the Evening Breeze to 
come by and call for him. Then together they go 
whirling away through the air — down, down, down 
to the earth. And the Sandman sings : 

I’m coming to close your eyes, my dears, 

So hurry and dry those sleepy tears ; 

For the little Dream-fairies that live in the moon, 
Are coming to visit the earth children soon, 

With beautiful dreams, my dears. 

So when the Sandman goes away with the Even- 
ing Breeze, the Dream-fairies smile. They know how 
drowsy little heads will nod, and pretty little eyelids 
will close. And they hurry and finish their very 


sweetest dreams, while they listen with all their ears 
for the merry old Moon-King’s voice. And when he 
calls, no wonder they gather happily around him and 
listen while he says with his j oiliest chuckle: 

Jump on a moonbeam! Slide away! 

This is the time for the fairies to play ; 

To sound alseep earth children whisper gay tales, 
Frolic on hillsides and romp in the vales, 

But come back ere break of day. 

With a joyous “Heigh-ho!” the fairies hurry 
away, slipping and sliding and gliding down the 
softly gleaming beams. But sometimes a cloud 
drifts along and stops them in midair. Then they 
line up one behind the other; and when the cloud 
moves away they rush down, down, down to earth in 
laughing rows. 

No one but a Dream-fairy can know what great 
fun it is to dance in moonlit meadows and play hide- 
and-seek among the trees of dim forests. They know 
how to drift about on the water in lily pods, and how 
to make swings out of the long creepers of the climb- 
ing vines. And they tip toe up to snug little beds 
and whisper pretty dreams in the ears of the sleeping 
little children of the earth. 

Long before the stars grow pale they climb up 
the moonbeams ; and when the little earth folks wake 
up on the morning and rub their eyes, the Dream- 
fairies are back in their home in the moon, and the 
Moon-King is saying : 

Sandman, fairies, harken all ! 

Answer while the roll I call ; 

Then, when we’ve all had a moon-fairy rest, 

There is sand to gather and dreams to test, 

Before the night shades fall. 



WHEN THE CRICKET WENT AWOOING 


Oh, the cricket he chirped as he hopped o’er the way, 

For Spring was abroad and the insects were gay; 

The path ’crost the meadow was bordered with 
flowers, 

’Neath the ferns and the grasses were sweet, shady 
bowers 

Where the lads and the lassies a-wooing went stroll- 
ing, 

And the cricket passed by with a glance sly and 
knowing. 

The birds were a-singing a rollicking ditty 

As they swung in the alder, en route to the city ; 

The bees in the blossoms were busy and humming, 

There was honey to gather and summer was coming ; 

Everywhere the tiny green leaves were unfurling, 

The meandering brook was a-bubbling and purling ; 

So the cricket hopped on with intense satisfaction, 

Life was good, life was sweet, life was one long at- 
traction ; 


He knew he was handsome and wealthy and witty, 
Beloved by the maidens, fat, slim, prim, and pretty ; 
He always was dressed in the latest of style, 

He knew all the gossip and all things worth while. 
Now his jacket of broadcloth was jaunty and trim, 
His hat at an angle becoming to him; 

So with song in his heart and a smile on his lips, 

He thought of the girls and of gay pleasure trips ; 
There was Gladys, a maiden so charming and airy, 
And Jenny, a shy, sweet, dainty young fairy ; 

Miss Edith was jolly, vivacious and bright, 

Her dimpled, red cheeks were indeed a delight; 

But of all the dear maids he had fancied before, 
Blonde Alice, so sweet, was the one to adore ; 

This winsome young miss with a glance won his 
heart, 

He loved her, he vowed, and was loath to depart 
Till her promise she gave that she would be his bride 
If he would be constant whatever betide. 

So the cricket he chirped as he hopped o’er the way, 
For to call on his loved one he journeyed today; 
She lived in a field at the turn of the stream, 

In a home that was neat, snug, cosy, and clean ; 

He pictured her eyes through the window a-peeping 
For a glimpse of his form up the pathway a-leaping. 
Now a voice at his side took his thoughts from the 
lady, 

And he paused, and peered round in the thicket so 
shady. 

Then into the path stepped a bug of renown, 

Known for deeds bold and daring in each cricket 
town. 

With a flash in his eyes he surveyed the young dandy. 
Said he, “Time is flying and no words we’ll bandy ; 
My sword will assist me to be master here, 

I could put an end to your vain young career ; 

So brace up, step lively, and march on before me; 
Turn your nose to the left, stop at yon single thorn 
tree ; 

Step out of those clothes — do not wait to entreat, 

It is best not to argue for I will not repeat. 


Thank you, sir ; that is right ; now regain your com- 
posure, 

The air is quite warm ; never mind the exposure ; 

But I would suggest that you keep in the shade 

When returning back home on the trail through the 
glade. 

If you wish to start now, I shall not detain, 

But cease looking cross, from such language re- 
frain.” 

So the cricket he wended his way through the grasses ; 

Gone were his duds, all he had was his glasses. 

A more forlorn looking cricket ne’er slunk in the 
gloaming, 

The fashionable hour for folks to go roaming. 

He peered and he listened, fear crept through his 
bones ; 

Suppose someone should see him. Ah, deep were his 
groans. 

And this was the world that he thought so alluring ; 

How could there be sorrows like he was enduring? 

Oh, the way was so long and so weary and dreary, 

The very same road that before was so cheery; 

But at last he came up to his own garden gate, 

A bedraggled young cricket, disgusted with fate. 


a 



IN DROWSYLAND 


A little head is nodding, nodding, 
Little eye-lids close; 

Golden curls are bobbing, bobbing, 
Over cheeks of rose. 

A little doll is falling, falling, 

From a baby band; 

Fairy dreams are calling, calling, 
“Come, come to Drowsyland.” 


> 


THE WHITE 
PASSION FLOWER 


C 


Once there was a beautiful passion vine that 
trailed over a hooded garden seat, and every after- 
noon a honey-bee came to rest in the biggest of the 
white blossoms. There he would swing gently to 
and fro, droning drowsily the while. 

He liked to lazily watch the bright hollyhocks. 
They swayed so gracefully. And sometimes birds or 
butterflies would loiter in the rose arbor where it 
was cool and shady. If he sat quite still and list- 
ened, he could often hear them talk. 

One afternoon as he sat in his favorite flower, 
singing sleepily to himself, he heard a soft “tweet, 
tweet,” and then a ripple of sweet melody. He list- 
ened. It came from the rose arbor. 


Then a bird answered from the depths of a 
honey-suckle that spread, flowering, over a trellis. 

Again came the pretty, musical call ; and after 
a pause, once more, fluttering, flute-like, came the 
answer. 

“I wish they wouldn’t be so noisy. It makes me 
cross, for I was almost asleep,” thought the honey- 
bee. 

And the next minute he was glad he was awake, 
for the most beautiful bird he had ever seen had left 
the honey-suckle vine and was skimming over the 
flower beds to the rose arbor. 

“Was some one calling me?” he heard her ask, 
as she disappeared in amongst the green leaves. 

“Why, yes ; I was,” twittered the bird who had 
called first. “We birds were resting here in the 
shade and wanted you to join us. You see, we knew 
you were a stranger.” 

“Thank you,” said the beautiful one sweetly. 
“I only stopped in for a little while to see your 
garden. I am on my way to a big, sunny park I 
know of in the South.” 

“Do trees grow there?” asked the birds. 

“Oh, yes,” chirped the stranger. “Big ones, all 
leafy and green.” 

“And flowers, too?” they inquired. 

“Flowers and vines more beautiful than any I 
have seen,” she replied. “There is a passion vine 
there, and its flowers are gorgeous purple — not 
washed out and white like those that tumble about 
over the hooded garden seat.” 

The bee heard. He blinked his eyes hard and 
sat very still. The birds flew away, but he still sat 
quietly by himself. His head felt hot and dizzy. 


“My beautiful flowers are white,” he thought 
sadly, “and perhaps they do look washed out. I 
didn’t know.” 

And from that time on he just sat and wished 
the flowers were gorgeous purple like those in the 
Southern park. He made himself quite unhappy. 

“If I only knew how it was done,” he finally 
decided, “I could get some purple paint from the 
pansy and tint my own blossoms.” So he made up 
his mind to go to the park and find out all about it. 

He left his beautiful passion vine in the sweet- 
smelling garden, and wandered over fields and 
meadows and hills and valleys, but he could not find 
the park anywhere. 

Sometimes he found gardens, but they were 
weedy and overgrown; and there were no beautiful 
garden seats or passion vines — not even white ones. 

At last he grew weary and homesick, and saw 
with dismay that the leaves were beginning to turn 
brown. The flowers were disappearing. 

Startled, he turned homeward and hurried as 
fast as he could, until one evening when the sun was 
sinking like a big golden orange in the West, he saw 
his own garden again. 

The trees were not so bright and green, and the 
roses had left the arbor. Even the purple pansy was 
gone. 

But there over the hooded garden seat trailed 
the passion vine, waving in welcome. Only one blos- 
som remained, and it was the biggest flower of all. 

White and cheery it nestled in the leaves, and 
the tired little bee heaved a big sigh of happiness 
and satisfaction as he droaned himself to dreamland 
cuddled close to the heart of the flower. 



THE SONG OF THE LADYBUGS 


When the summer sun is falling 
Like an orange in the sky, 

And the whip-poor-will is calling 
For he knows the night is nigh, 
Then we ladybugs come and sit, 
And chat with one another; 
While playfully our children flit 
Amusing each the other. 


We love to tell sweet fairy tales 
Of princes and of witches, 

Of castles built in sunny vales 
And surrounded by deep ditches ; 

We know where light wings get their hues, 
Where the choicest flowers bloom, 

And we can tell you if we choose 
About their sweet perfume. 


Oh, we ladybugs have lots of fun 
When we meet at close of day, 

For all our daily tasks are done, 

And we drive dull care away; 

We chat and joke and laugh and sing 
And swiftly fly the hours, 

Till the dews the summer evenings bring 
Drive us to our bowers. 





IN GHICKLAND 


“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” said Mother Hen, 
“Yip, yip, yip,” said the chicks ; 

And they all ran by like fluffy balls 
On little yelloAv sticks. 

Now in, now out, and all about, 

They darted here and there ; 

They peeped and yipped and picked 
Around all over everywhere. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch, went Mother Hen, 
“Just see what I have found ; 

A lovely, big, fat, juicy worm 
That was hiding in the ground.” 

“Yip, yip, yip,” chirped the little chicks 
As they hurried to her call, 

And they picked and yipped and picked 
Until they gobbled worm and all. 

Then down sat Mother Hen to rest, 

While the chicks found bugs and things; 
But by and by they yip-yip-yipped 
And cuddled neath her wings. 



IN THE FOREST SHADOWS 


The dusk of twilight, wdth all its charming 
softening and confusion of lines, stole restfully over 
the peaceful river which placidly wended its way in 
and out among the shadowy towering trees of the 
forest. 

Close upon the water’s edge pressed the dense 
luxuriant bushes, and against their dipping boughs 
the water rippled softly. The languid air scarce 
rustled a leaf. 

The whir of a bird’s wings, then the cry of a 
nighthawk came from the depths of the solitude. 
Somewhere up the river the long drawn melancholy 
cry of a wolf echoed. Then silence. 

Skimming like a bird, a small birchen canoe 
guided by a single Indian slipped silently up the still 


river. Gracefully the copper-colored body swayed 
as the paddle swept noiselessly to and fro. The frail 
craft turned shoreward, and, straight as an arrow, 
darted to a grassy slope. 

A tall, muscular Indian sprang ashore, secreted 
the canoe behind a screen of drooping branches ; then 
with sharp dark eyes scanned the fringe of shrub- 
bery. 

Bold and stalwart he stood in an attitude of 
watchful alertness. In his hand he held a bow 
tipped with bright feathers. Three stained eagle 
feathers were caught in his long, black hair, and on 
his feet he wore soft, beaded moccasins. In a sash 
of skins which encircled his w r aist, he carried a hunt- 
ing knife, a tomahawk, and a quiver of arrows. 

A moment he stood, then sprang up the slope 
and plunged into the forest wilderness. 

In a small clearing, a camp fire was soon 
kindled, and when the little tongues of flame were 
darting among the dry branches with a merry, 
crackling sound, weiredly lighting the enclosing trees 
and bushes, the Indian threw himself full length 
upon the grass in the ruddy firelight glow, and was 
soon sound asleep. 

“Crack ! crash ! snap !” Something was coming 
through the underbrush! 

Into the clearing an immense black bear ad- 
vanced with an awkward, lumbering gait. He 
blinked at the fire, and stopped short as if puzzled. 
Then he walked ponderously forward with lolling 
tongue to a clump of berry bushes. He picked them 
with his hand-like, enormous claws, and ate them 
with seeming relish. Then he wheeled around, and 
surveyed the Indian lying by the fire. 

Startled, black eyes were watching him. 


He twisted Ms huge head, opened Ms jaws, and 
Ms red tongue hung dangling. 

A form sprang up, and a tomahawk was raised 
and struck savagely at Bruin. 

He merely rose on his haunches, struck out with 
his paw, and the tomahawk was sent skimming 
yards away. 

Now, the hunting knife was drawn, and around 
and around the fire the Indian and the huge bear 
circled. The big, brown eyes of the clumsy bear 
were taking on a cruel glitter. The Indian was grow- 
ing weary, and his heart beat with dread. How his 
feet dragged when he fain would turn and run ! He 
grasped his hunting knife with nerveless fingers— 
powerless to strike. How his heart pounded ! 

Again the bear rose upon his haunches, and 
towered above the Indian. A paw was lifted, and 
the big, sharp claws gleamed cruelly. . . . 

A smouldering log fell with a thud upon the 
dying embers of the camp fire. The Indian sat up 
with a start. 

He was alone in the solitude of the forest wild- 
erness. From the river came a soft murmur and a 
gentle, rippling sound. 

It was a dream. 






































































































































































































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THE FAIRIES OF THE WOODS 


The leaves of the woodland stirred and rustled 
softly as the Evening Breeze swept by. The moon 
glided up from behind the hill with a flood of pale 
witchery. Then, from out the inky shadows where 
the clumps of dark trees stood, a chorus of voices 
blended in a soft, hushed melody ; and the words of 
the song were these : 

The moon shines pale, 

The woodland vale 
Is bathed in silver light ; 

The evening breeze 
Is in the trees, 

A-singing with delight ; 

The star lights gleam, 

The moonbeams stream, 

Ah, what a pretty sight ! 

For half revealed 
And half concealed, 

Is Fairyland tonight. 

A slim fairy with merry blue eyes appeared in 
a patch of silver moonlight. Then another stepped 
forward with languid grace, and behind her came a 
dainty, dimpled mite who called a cheery greeting. 

Then from out the leafy shade there came a gay 
hub-bub, and a laughing throng bounded into the 
light. With jest and song they moved about, while 
a great star that shone low down in the night sky 
winked merrily at their antics. 

Suddenly the fairies paused and listened. The 
leaves rustled faintly in the silence. 

Then on the still night air came a wild, yet 
sweet sound — a whistle long drawn out. 


The fairies stirred uncertainly, and looked 
about with startled glances. 

Again came the sound, now nearer. Then again, 
close by. 

Into the gloom the fairies peered fearfully, list- 
ened a moment more, then drew back into the dense 
shadow of the trees. 

In the stillness the leaves moved with a soft 
rustle, and the great star stopped winking and 
looked down on the woodland watchful and un- 
blinking. 

Then, in to the patch of silver moonlight a queer 
little old man hobbled. He stopped and looked 
around curiously. Beneath a shock of snow-white 
hair his eyes looked black and piercing. 

Then, with his fingers to his lips, he whistled, 
and once more the wild, sweet sound rang out over 
the woods. 

The great star looked down in amazement ; then 
winked merrily as the fairies came dancing out from 
the shadows, and, with joined hands, whirled around 
the old man who stood there staring with surprise. 

Around and around him they danced, and as 
they danced they sang : 

Good evening, sir, 

Do not stir, 

You’re a prisoner of the fairies ; 

Here we reign, 

In our domain 
No stranger ever tarries. 


The old man looked around at his captors. Then 
he shrugged slightly. “You must be the fairies of 
the woods,” said he. 


Now, when the queer, little old man spoke, the 
fairies stood still. Then they nodded. 

“And I,” the little man continued, “I am the 
King of the Gnomes who live in the roots of the old 
oak tree.” 

The fairies laughed, and once more they circled 
around and around the gnome ; and this time as they 
danced they sang: 


We know your name, 

We’ve heard your fame, 

We’re happy, sir, to meet you ; 

And here tonight, 

In revel bright, 

We sing this song to greet you. 

The King of the Gnomes was well pleased when 
the fairies welcomed him so heartily. He sat down 
on a grassy bank, and the fairies grouped themselves 
around him. 

Then the little man told strange wild tales of 
life in the roots of the old oak tree, and how, some- 
times at night, the gnomes roamed about the woods 
in search of adventure. 

The fairies listened wide-eyed to the stirring 
stories he told so well. And as he talked the Moon- 
King went sailing across the sky, and the great star 
that twinkled low down in the night sky began to 
blink sleepily. 

Then the King of the Gnomes invited the fairies 
to go to the oak tree the next night and be his guests. 

The slim fairy with the merry, blue eyes clapped 
her hands with delight, and the others joined in the 
gay applause till the woods rang with their cheer. 


The queer little old man jumped up, and, with 
his fingers to his lips, once more emitted the wild, 
sweet whistle. 

In answer, a number of little white-haired men 
emerged from the shadows, and the King of the 
Gnomes moved away in their midst. 

And as they went the fairies sang : 

Come again some night 
When the moon is bright, 

Together our songs we’ll sing; 

And side by side 
We’ll merrily glide, 

With laughter the woods will ring. 

Right merry tales 
In the star-lit vales 
Will speed the hours away; 

And all too soon 

The waning moon 

Will tell of the break of day. 


PART II 

The Gnomes of the Oak 

Again the leaves of the woodland stirred and 
rustled softly as the Evening Breeze swept by. Once 
more the moon glided up from behind the hill with a 
flood of pale witchery. Then from out the shadow 
of the trees came a band of gay fairies, who hurried 
to the old oak tree. And they sang: 

Hoo, hoo! Gnome, 

Are you at home? 

No sign of you we see ; 

We must confess, 

We cannot guess 
The way into your tree. 


Now, while the fairies were singing, a little old 
man appeared. He beckoned, and the fairies fol- 
lowed him in among the roots of the tree. 

When he came to a gnarled old knot he knocked. 
Then he called something in a sing-song voice, and 
the knot was rolled slowly back out of sight. 

There ahead stretched a long passage, lighted 
here and there by flaming torches. 

The little old man beckoned again, and the 
fairies walked behind him down the soft moss-lined 
way. 

The blue eyes of the slim fairy sparkled with 
excitement, and the dainty little mite dimpled pret- 
tily as she poked her finger deep into the moss that 
hung on the wall. The languid fairy forgot to be 
languid. Two bright little red spots glowed in her 
cheeks as she walked lightly along. 

At last the way grew wider, and soon the soft 
“tinkle-tinkle” of splashing water could be heard. 
Then the air became sweetly scented, and the fairies 
sniffed delightedly. 

A moment more and they stepped into a large, 
open garden. Bright flowers bloomed everywhere, 
and in their midst a fountain played with a musical, 
tinkling sound. Vines trailed about in tangled con- 
fusion, and the whole garden was very quaint, and 
very old, and very picturesque. 

Now, while the fairies looked around with ad- 
miring glances, deep voices began to sing, and this 
is the song they sang : 

Dear fairy band, 

Do not stand, 

Come sit beside our King ; 

We’ll sing for you, 

And dance for you, 

And show you everything. 


And then they saw the King of the Gnomes hob- 
bling to meet them; and hundreds of other little 
gnomes danced and sang while the queer little King 
led the fairies to soft, mossy seats beside his throne. 

And when the gnomes had sung and sung, and 
danced and danced, there was a banquet with won- 
derful fairy things to eat. And then they rambled 
about the gardens, and the gnomes filled their arms 
with the perfumed blossoms. 

Suddenly on the still air came a wild, sweet 
sound. It was the whistle of the gnomes. And there 
in the entrance to the passage a queer little old man 
waited to take them back to the moonlight. 

And as they left the roots of the old oak tree 
they saw that the night was clear and mild, and the 
Evening Breeze swept softly by. And the great star 
blinked sleepily as the fairies passed from the moon- 
light into the shadow of the trees. 





THE DRAGON FLY CHORAL 


In regions where the sun shines bright, 
On water plants we first see light ; 
We’re “darning needles of the devil,” 
And in the winged sports we revel. 

We’re gay and happy all the day, 

We have no debts nor rent to pay; 

We flit about from morning light 
Till twilight brings the shades of night. 


We fly above the meadows fair 
And breathe the perfume-laden air ; 
We dart and whirl, now high, now low, 
Back and forth, and to and fro. 


O’er bright green fields we ramble free, 
We sport with butterfly and bee; 

We come and go just as we please, 
Borne along on the summer breeze. 

Across the meadows, just beyond, 
There is a cool and shady pond; 

And sometimes here it is our whim 
To swiftly over the water skim. 

We dodge among the lily pods, 

We love to skirt the tule rods ; 

We race along from side to side, 

Slip and slide and dart and glide. 

We have adventures in the bogs 
With bold and big-eyed giant frogs ; 
They would catch us if they could, 
We’d be goners if they should. 

Oh, our world is gay and bright, 

And our days a keen delight ; 

We’re a jolly dragon-fly band, 

The happiest insects in the land. 



I 


THE MOSQUITOS’ BALL 


It was evening in Mossy Swamp. The stars 
twinkled brightly in a cloudless sky, and the dew 
drops glistened on the grass and the flowers. Long 
creepers, strung with blossoms and the tiny lights of 
the fireflies swung from tree to tree and from shrub 
to shrub, while over all the soft light of the moon- 
beams shimmered. 

A dusty little gnat sat on the tip end of a blade 
of wire grass, and rubbed his eyes as he looked 
around. 

“Now, surely this is Mossy Swamp,” thought 
he, “for, yes, I remember that vine over there and 
the clump of grasses ; and this is the same pond all 
right.” 

He rubbed his eyes hard and stared about him 
again. “I could almost believe I had crept into 
Fairyland,” he mused, as the gentle breeze swayed 
the vines, and some of the flowers spilled their per- 
fume. 

Just then the first notes of a rollicking ditty 
sounded from across the pond, and the little gnat 
recognized the crickets’ band. My, how his blood 
stirred as the sweet strains of the dance music sound- 
ed over the water. 

Then, all of a sudden, a gay throng of insects 
appeared. They skimmed over the water with a 
pretty, graceful sweep; then blithe and gay, they 
whirled merrily in the sedges. 

Madly the crickets chirped their music, and 
away skipped the dancers over the swamp, humming 
happily the while. It was the mosquito’s ball. 

The poor little gnat watched longingly. Oh, how 
he would love to join in the fun, but no, it would 
never, never do. He was all dusty and dirty, and 
besides he was only a gnat, so he sat there all for- 
lorn and listened to them sing. 


“Gauzy wing, 

Come and play, 

Dance and sing 
The hours away. 

“Hop and skip 
One and all, 

Gaily trip 
At our ball.” 

It made him feel so lonesome, and two tiny tears 
were just beginning to gather in his eyes when he 
heard a queer sound behind him. It was the soft 
“swish-swish” of wings. 

He turned quickly, just in time to see a big, 
black bat alight on a twig near him. He was an 
ugly old monster, and the gnat shook with fright as 
he heard him mutter : 

“I smell something 
Good to eat ; 

It’s gauzy wing 
Mosquito meat!” 

“Oh, dear, what shall I do ! What shall I do !” 
wondered the scared little gnat. He knew the wicked 
old bat would swoop right down into the very midst 
of the dancers unless he could warn them in time. 

Very quietly he slipped down the grass blade. 
His heart pitti-patted so loudly he feared the black 
monster would hear it and discover him; but when 
he paused and listened the old fellow was still 
a-mumbling to himself. 

The gnat spread his wings and flitted silently 
in and out among the grasses until he reached the 
band of gay revelers who were frolicking over a 
mossy green swamp pool. 

They listened to what he told them about the 
big, black bat, and were so terrified they didn’t 
know which way to turn. 


At last a mosquito said, “Come, come quickly, 
and let us tell our friend, the horned owl.” 

The others echoed, “Yes, come quickly,” and 
away they all flew just as fast as they could go. 

The horned owl heard the story, and scratched 
his head wisely as he answered : 



And solemnly winking his eye he hastened away. 

Once more the cricket band struck up the music. 

The soft moonlight shone down upon a happy 
little gnat in the midst of a merry throng of dancers, 
and joyously his tiny voice joined in the refrain : 

“Gauzy wing, 

Come and play, 

Dance and sing 
The hours away. 

“Hop and skip, 

One and all, 

Gaily trip 
At our ball.” 



THE FETE OF THE FLOWERS 


The Robin alighted on a slender branch of the 
Pussy Willow beside the Blue-bird, and sang in his 
clear, ringing voice, 

“All the wild flowers of the Spring 
Seem to think it’s just the thing 
To gather in this field of ours 
When May supplants the April showers.” 

And the Blue-bird answered with a burst of 
softly whistled music, 

“It is their annual Springtime fete, 

And they always keep the date ; 

With breath so sweet, and tints so gay, 

They nod and wave the livelong day.” 

The Robin cocked his head sidewise, and looked 
down at the grassy slope, 


“The Baby-blue-eyes are so sweet, 

The Cream-cups and the Blue-bells meet ; 
With dainty grace, so full of fun, 

They lift their faces to the Sun.” 


he warbled, and the Blue-bird 
hopped up higher, and ran far- 
ther out on the limb above, before 
he answered, 




Yes, yes, but see the Milk- weed there; 

Watch her bend with an elegant air, 

And the towering Sunflowers have a way 
Of faithfully turning toward the God of Day.” 


The Robin fluttered his wings, jumped up be- 
side his friend, and said, 




“I see a sunny Johnny-jump-up 
There beside the Buttercup ; 

And Dandelions gently sway 
O’er modest Violets, tucked away.” 


The Blue-bird preened 
himself, ruffling his gay 
feathers of red and blue. 
Then he remarked in his 
gentle, amiable tones, 


“Did you know about those Poppy fellows 
In their clothes of gorgeous yellows? 
They’re the flowers of California State, 
And are always popular at the fete.” 



A Honey-Bee came along, murmuring his busy 
little song, and the Robin called to him, 

“Come and tell us what you’ve seen 
Over by that hillside green ; 

You must know the flowers well 
From rocky ledge to shady dell.” 


The Bee alighted on a blushing 
Primrose, and the birds flew down to a 
thicket near him, and listened while he 
hummed, 

“I know all the blossoms of Mother Earth, 
Where each sweet flower has her birth ; 

Here to the Festival of the Spring, 

They all their charm and beauty bring.” 

The interested Blue-bird hopped nearer 
and asked musically, 

“Do you know the Wild Columbine? 

Do they live in the rocks in the warm sunshine? 
Do they nod about and wave good will? 

Are they the same exquisite flowers still?” 


The Bee flew over to a Clover Blossom, 
and the birds hopped to the lowest branch of 
the thicket, before he replied. 



“Yes, yes, and I’ve seen the hillsides flame 
With the scarlet flowers that you name ; 

I know the Larkspur and the Golden Rod, 
The Honey suckle and the Lily-pod.” 


He waited to sip some sweet nectar from the 
fragrant Clover flower before resuming, 

"I know of fields one sheet of gold, 

Where no other flower is so bold, 

As to crowd among the Poppies gay 
For over all wild flowers, they hold sway.” 

The Robin sang a cheery little snatch of song; 
then flew up to the tip-top of the thicket, and called 
down, 

“Pm sorry I must fly away, 

For I’ve enjoyed this talk today; 

Now, I’ll notice these sweet flowers more 
Than ever I have done before.” 

The Blue-bird poised for flight, but remarked 
to the Bee ere he departed, 

“I’d like to see the sunbeams peep 
At the dewy flowers fresh from sleep ; 

So I’ll have the Lark call in the morn 
And tell me when the Day is born.” 

The Bee watched him till he passed behind a 
screen of graceful wild grape vines ; then he buzzed 
to the flowers, 

“It is sundown, and the day is over ; 

I must not loiter in the clover ; 

’Tis time all Bees were in their bowers, 

So ‘Good-night’ to you, drowsy flowers.” 



















































































* • •• ■ . 



























































































IWK Kyfti 


































































































































































































































IN THE POOL 


Down from the mountain comes tumbling Toosie- 
a-loosa. Along the banks the wild rose vines grow ; 
the thimble berries and the yew berries, and in the 
pools where the water stands quiet, the delicately 
tinted pond lilies live. 

One pool is more crystal-like than the others. 
Shadier, too, for brakes and ferns tangle close be- 
neath the vines, and the sunbeams must dodge and 
peer intently to catch the tiniest glimpse within the 
shelter. This is the haunt of Nesseta, the water- 
nymph, and the home of the most exquisite pond 
lilies. 

One afternoon when the ferns were nodding, 
napping, and the lilies were languidly floating about, 
Nesseta came bubbling up in their very midst, and 
scrambled up on a rock where the mosses grew like 
a soft green cushion. 

“Listen !” she cried excitedly. “Whatever do you 
think?” 

The ferns were wide awake in an instant, and 
the lilies crowded eagerly around the pretty nymph, 
who sat enthroned on the mossy rock above them. 

“Tell us, tell us,” they chorused. 

“Well,” said Nesseta, “it’s the fish. They have 
had such a quarrel, and the poor little trout is ac- 
cused of stealing the prize. He didn’t; I know he 
didn’t, and they have put him in prison.” 

“What prize? Where? When? What for?” 
Everyone was talking at once. 

“Why, the prize for the Fishes Fair,” answered 
Nesseta impatiently. 

“Fair! What Fair?” 


“You dear, sleepy things !” she exclaimed with a 
laugh. “I’ll tell you all about it.” 

The ferns crowded close up to the water’s edge, 
and the lilies settled comfortably. 

“All the fish in the whole stream gathered in the 
nooks under the big rocks down by the bend to hold a 
Fishes’ Fair,” she began. 

“Even the Trout from the headwaters and the 
Salmon from way down by the river came. The 
Striped Bass and the Pike were there, too, and a 
whole school of minnows. 

“Oliver, the big Green Turtle, told me, so of 
course, I went, and he and I sat on the pebbles at the 
bottom of the stream and watched. It was such fun. 

“Each one brought the very nicest curious thing 
he could find to exhibit. There was a little stone 
washed perfectly round and bright red like a ruby, 
and queer plants, and a bit of cord with a hook on the 
end, and oh, ever so many odd things. 

“They were all so interested. And for the best 
exhibit there was a big, fat, juicy grub-worm. That 
was the prize. 

“The Salmon was to decide which was the most 
curious thing presented, and everyone was watching 
Mm anxiously, when suddenly the Trout cried, ‘Look ! 
The prize is gone !’ 

“Each looked at the other, and nobody said a 
word. For sure enough the grub-worm had disap- 
peared. He had been bound with long thread-like 
roots to a slender shoot, and now shoot and worm 
were gone. 

“Then one by one they began to suspect the 
Trout, and he, poor fellow, could only say that he 
knew no more than they. 

“The Salmon was angry. The Pike lost his head 


entirely and said horrid things. You see, he brought 
the cord and the hook and had been almost sure of 
the prize. 

“At last the Salmon spoke. His voice shook, al- 
though he tried hard to appear quite calm. ‘Mr. 
Trout/ said he, ‘what have you to say for yourself?’ 
Everybody kept still and listened. 

“The Trout looked miserable. ‘I knew no more 
than the others/ he answered quietly. ‘I happened 
to look and saw that the stalk and grub- worm had 
vanished. Then I spoke. That is all.’ 

“My! What an excitement,” continued Nesseta. 
“Everyone had an opinion, and everyone expressed it. 

“ ‘Silence !’ screamed the Salmon. Then ‘Seize 
him!’ 

“Poor Mr. Trout. He submitted quite tamely, 
but what chance had he among so many?” 

“ ‘To prison with him !’ roared the Salmon, and 
they hustled him rudely away to the caged-in nook 
by the willows. He’s there now,” concluded the 
nymph, “and the fish are all swimming around 
wondering how to punish him.” 

“Poor fellow,” a tender-hearted lily murmured 
sadly. “Why should they accuse him?” 

“Because he stood quite near the prize,” Nes- 
seta replied, “and I could have eaten him while the 
others were not noticing.” 

“I don’t believe he did,” a green fern exclaimed 
decidedly. 

“Nor I,” said the tallest brake. 

“Nor I, nor I,” said the lilies. 

“I know him to be a perfect gentleman,” said 
the nymph, tossing her pretty head, “and I for one 
could swear he is innocent.” 

“Well spoken!” exclaimed a new voice, and 
there was Oliver Turtle scrambling up on the rock. 


“It is true we believe in Mr. Trout,” said the 
tender-hearted lily, “but what can we do to prove his 
innocence?” 

Everyone looked mournful. Nesseta shook her 
head dolefully, and the turtle hid his head until a 
big tear had time to fall off his nose. 

Suddenly they heard some one groan. They 
listened intently. Once more they heard the sound, 
and again and again it was repeated. 

“My goodness me !” exclaimed Nesseta, and they 
all peered around. 

“Why, it’s Jimmy Bull Frog,” cried the tallest 
Brake. “Here on the bank by the big root.” 

Sure enough. There he was all doubled up ut- 
tering heart-rending groans. 

Nesseta slid down into the pool and swam to 
the bank. “What is it, Jimmy?” she asked pityingly. 
“Are you ill, dear?” 

“Oh, oh, oh!” wailed Jimmy, and swayed him- 
self to and fro. “Oh, oh, oh !” 

“It must be something he ate,” said Oliver Tur- 
tle, knowingly. 

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Jimmy. “It must be that 
grub-worm was too rich for my blood.” 

“Ah, ha!” the nymph exclaimed triumphantly. 
“And where did you find the grub-worm, Jimmy?” 

“Entangled in among some thread-like roots by 
the Fishes’ Fair,” he moaned. “Oh, oh, oh !” 

“So!” Oliver Turtle shook his head emphat- 
ically. “Well, back he goes to explain this thing to 
Mr. Salmon.” 

“And I’ll go along to see fair play,” said Nes- 
seta, “and to be the first to congratulate Mr. Trout 
on his release.” 

And with a gurgle and a bubble they were gone, 
leaving a ripple that widened and gently rocked the 
lilies, then washed against the ferns with a pretty, 
soft “Splash.” 



THE SUBJECTION OF THE 
BUMBLE-BEES 


The Queen of the butterflies was in a rage. Her 
beautiful, gorgeous wings quivered as she poised 
herself on a delicate wild rose, and looked at the 
bumble-bee with scornful eyes. 

“Go back to your Prince,” said she. “Tell him 
the honey-suckle vine is within our boundaries and 
we will no longer tolerate this intrusion. We have 
rose thorns in plenty, and are well able to defend 
our domain. 

“Soldiers,” she cried in an imperious voice, and 
six sturdy butterflies in liveries of yellow and black 
arose from the green grass blades. “Escort our 
troublesome neighbor as far as the dandelion 
hedge.” 

Then, with three soldiers in front of him, and 
three behind, away flew the bumble-bee to his own 
land on the far side of the lily pond. 

The Queen watched the company until they dis- 
appeared behind the tall rushes ; then she called to 
her dainty, white-winged maids, and together they 
fluttered over to the grassy slope where the ladies 
and gentlemen of the court were sporting hither and 
thither in the warm afternoon sunshine. 

“Tell Lord Rainbow Wings I would speak with 
him in the butter-cup arbor,” said she ; and soon he 
was bowing his head before her in a sun-flecked 
aisle with a nodding yellow canopy. 

“My lord, the bumble-bee people are becoming 
more and more annoying. Time and again they 


have been warned away from our wild-flower past- 
ures, and even today our soldiers found one of their 
young men in the honey-suckle. It is past endur- 
ance, and you, my Prime Minister, can see that we 
must fight for our rights.” 

Lord Kainbow Wings nodded wisely, and 
walked to and fro lost in thought. 

“The glow worms are our friends,” he finally 
answered, “and while we sleep tonight, they will go 
to the country of the bumble-bees, and learn their 
position and number. Then, before the morning sun 
dries the dew on the flowers, we will make our start. 
Half of our people will fly around by way of the 
clover fields, and the rest will load the ammunition 
of rose thorns on to the lily leaf barges, and row 
across the pond. A perilous undertaking ; but if we 
can surprise the enemy, victory will be ours.” 

“It is well,” replied the butterfly Queen, who 
had listened to these plans with close attention, 
“and you may now send a herald to summon my peo- 
ple so that I may address them.” 

Before long, the beautiful winged subjects were 
hurrying in from their pastimes and labors to listen 
to the words of their queen. 

Mounted on her favorite briar-rose, she told her 
loyal, loving people all about the horrid bumble- 
bees. A murmur of anger passed through the ranks, 
but when she said she hoped they would agree with 
her that their neighbors must be subdued, and that 
upon the morrow, they fluttered about in pleasur- 
able excitement, for butterflies are very fond of ad- 
venture. 


II 


It was morning, and the people were astir in 
bumble-bee land. 

The Prince had eaten his breakfast of delicious 
golden honey, and now sat enthroned on a clover 
blossom, directing the work for the day. 

“The breeze brings a tempting odor from yon- 
der orchard,” said he, “and today you may com- 
mence work on the apple blossoms.” 

Then, turning to his friend, the Captain of the 
Striped Buzzers, he laughed, and said, “So her 
Majesty of the butterflies is threatening us. Ha, 
Ha, Ha! Merely a bluff, Captain — merely a bluff. 
Could she see our army drill, she would die of terror 
on the spot. Ha, Ha, Ha !” 

“It was no joke when they caught me feasting 
in the honey-suckle,” answered the Captain. “I 
shall not venture so far again without a bodyguard.” 

“Look ! Look !” interrupted the Prince. “What 
does this mean?” 

Over the clover field flew the orchard bees in 
a mad race for home. “The butterflies ! The butter- 
flies!” they called. “The air is thick with their 
armies !” 

“Sure enough,” cried the Captain excitedly. 
“Ketreat to the lily pond for a better position !” and 
the Prince and his people fell back before the on- 
rushing butterfly band. 

They were met by a volley of sharp rose thorns, 
which caused them to waver and buzz with pain. 

Then they saw the barges of thorns and the 
second army of butterflies. They were surrounded ! 
Panic stricken, they darted and whirled uncertainly 
about, humming wildly the while. 



“To the oak tree! To the oak tree!” cried the 
Prince, and they fled to the hollow trunk for shelter. 

The butterflies gathered around the tree. Then 
Lord Rainbow Wings called out in a loud voice: 
Surrender, in the name of the Queen of the Butter- 
flies!” 

They could hear the buzz of consultation within, 
then the Prince answered : “Your Queen is wise as 
well as brave. All hail to the Queen of the Butter- 
flies!” 

Then, one by one, they left the hollow in the 
tree, and each swore an oath of allegiance to the 
beautiful, gorgeous-winged Queen. 


V3K 




THE CHILDREN OF THE BREEZE 


All the little gusts of wind 
Are the children of the breeze ; 

They’re jolly, happy little sprites 
That live up in the trees. 

Sometimes they go out to play, 

And my ! how they do run ; 

They dart and whirl and sport about, 
And have a lot of fun. 

They make the branches bend and toss, 
They bow the grasses low ; 

They nod the flowers’ pretty heads, 
And sway them to and fro. 

And then, all of a sudden, 

They’re gone — quick as a wink; 

They must hear their mother call — 
That’s why they go, I think. 



ADVENTURES OF GRANDFATHER FLY 


“Oh me, oh my, I fear I am growing old,” sighed 
Grandfather Fly, as he alighted beside a group of 
young flies who were resting against the window 
pane. “That trip over from the screen door has 
just about tired me out.” He rubbed his hind legs 
together, and wagged his head dismally. 


“But I can remember when I was young like you. 
Then I had the strength of a bee. My wings were 
untiring, and I was the swiftest of all in flight. 

“Ah, those were the good old days of daring 
deeds and brave adventures.” His eyes gleamed 
reminiscently, and the young flies buzzed excitedly 
as they chorused, “Tell us, Grandfather. Tell us of 
those good old days.” 

Then the old fly stirred importantly as he said : 
“You must know that in those days I was the most 
renowned fly in the whole house. My courage was 
unsurpassed by any living fly, for all others as brave 
as I had perished. Some in the sweet, alluring 
depths of the golden syrup, some in the horrid mus- 
tard and vinegar that covered the bottom of the dark 
and stifling pickle jar; and others in the entangling 
meshes of the grim old spider’s web. 

“Countless adventures took away the lives of 
the young and brave by hundreds — aye, by thou- 
sands — but into all these horrors I ventured and 
came out alive. 

“It was often told in the throng that used to 
gather ’round the sugar bowl, that I had stood face 
to face with that wily warrior, the gray spider, that I 
did not shrink back before his crushing charges, but 
fought a stubborn battle, and would have died — still 
fighting — had not a great black spider (a sworn 
enemy of the gray) come to my assistance. 

“Yes, I was the hero of the flies, and my bold 
adventures were the talk of the house.” 

“But I had some narrow escapes,” he continued. 
“Once I got a breath of burnt paper in my lungs and 
nearly choked to death; and another time I was 
poisoned by the nasty powder in the yellow box 


called ‘physic’. And too well I remember how I felt 
one day when I tasted the vinegar. Ugh! (and he 
shivered) That was awful! 

“Have I never told you about the time I ex- 
plored the dark depths of the ink bottle? Well, well, 
well! Now I must tell you about that. 

“I had gone into the conservatory to smell a 
huge red flower that I had heard about, and on my 
way back I stopped to rest on a strange table. 

“As soon as I got my breath, of course, I started 
in to investigate. The first thing I espyed was a 
large ink bottle, so I crawled up and stood on the 
rim at the top. The cork was out, and all was dark 
within. 

“Now, it was a perilous undertaking, but I de- 
cided then and there that I would explore the inside 
of that bottle. 

“Very slowly and carefully I made my way 
down the sloping sides, breathing the choking air 
until I had reached a black kind of a fluid. I took a 
tiny taste, but it was not pleasing ; so hastily with- 
drawing farther up the side of the bottle, I paused 
to look around. 

“All was dark and silent. I imagined some 
wonder was in there hidden from view, so I circled 
around and around the dark glass, ever rising to- 
ward the neck. Not a thing of interest was there, 
and I was just about to emerge for a breath of fresh 
air, when a long, pointed pen dashed into that bottle 
and out again, and I barely escaped with my life. 

“Yes, that was an awful experience, but not the 
worst. No, indeed! What? Tell you some more? 
Well, it is most time for my nap, but I will tell you 
about the adventure of that yellow plain of death, 
the sticky tangle-foot. 


“I had never ventured to tread farther than its 
outer edge, until one day I happened to think, ‘Now, 
anything that smells so sweet must taste good.’ I 
was tempted to take just one bite to see what it was 
like. 

“So I circled about it a few times, then alighted 
right in the center. 

“Horrified, I found myself held fast. Three of 
my legs were caught, and as I struggled to free my- 
self, another leg stuck. 

“All around me I could see the dark bodies of 
dead flies, with all six legs and their wings glued to 
the yellow substance. 

“In my fright I gave one powerful wrench. To 
my intense joy I found myself free ! 

“I flew to a window pane where the glass was 
cool and moist, and it soothed my aching head ; but 
it was days before my strained limbs were strong 
again. That was the narrowest escape I ever had.” 

Grandfather Fly yawned and stretched his 
wings. Then he sniffed. 

“Ah, cabbage!” he exclaimed. “But I am too 
old to stem the tide of all the flies rushing kitchen- 
ward, so I will go to sleep here in the sun while you 
youngsters hurry along out with the others. 

“Have a good time,” he called after them, and 
soon he was sound asleep, dreaming of the days 
when he was young. 


















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